Toing and Froing
by NettikGirl
Summary: Trace, a 40-year-old Argonian Dragonborn has appeared in Skyrim. He wanders in and out of people's daily lives, being philosophical, world-weary, or very occasionally just burning things. Written from the general perspectives of Skyrim's NPCs.
1. Arcadia

_Disclaimer: Skyrim and the Elder Scrolls series belongs to Bethesda and all other respective developers._

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><p>Things were silent in Arcadia's Cauldron.<p>

Aside from the occasional bubbling and boiling of the Alchemy lab just downwind, Arcadia herself reveled in the stillness of the Loredas evening settling in. Not many people wandered into her store to begin with – but she made a fair amount of coin by selling simple remedies. Adventurers weren't common, but disease certainly was.

Even though trading hours were moments from ending, she remained attentive at the store's bench. It would soon be time to look over her ingredients again. Though her displayed stock was long-lasting, there were the occasional few bad eggs – both literally and figuratively speaking.

She rose to take on the task, and was interrupted by the creak of her door. A last-minute customer. Last second, if she wasn't mistaken.

Arcadia's eyebrows raised as she took in the visitor. Draped in a ragged cowl, and donning worn and poorly-managed iron armor, was an Argonian. She had seen a few a long time ago – a group of bandits had ambushed her cart and the Khajit caravan she'd been dealing with. She was fortunate that her contacts were skilled enough to strike them down.

This one lacked the sheen and clear scales of an Argonian youth. He looked a little old – middle-aged, perhaps 45-50 years. A few scars adorned his dark-scaled face, with the occasional markings of orange war paint. His eyes were dim, lacking the usual alertness she had witnessed in his race in the past.

It was only when he'd approached her when she'd noted something – his breathing came in wheezes – not as someone who'd been on the run from the guards, but as someone suffering an ailment. Arcadia peered over at the Black Marsh native, who, noting her presence, took a step back away from the counter.

He finally spoke, his voice slightly weak with illness.

"I don't know if this is contagious." He admitted. She was surprised to hear a lack of an accent – it sounded like he'd grown up in Cyrodiil, rather than the Black Marsh. Arcadia peered at his face, looking for any telltale physical symptoms of his sickness.

"You look a little pale… It could be Ataxia."

The Argonian blinked, raising his head in understanding.

"Don't suppose you have a cure?" His scaly hand reached for his coin purse. "I don't care if it tastes like Skeever droppings, at this point – this sickness has been hindering me for too long."

Arcadia hesitated. "When did you first start having symptoms?"

"Perhaps a week."

"… makes sense, since you're an _Argonian._" She muttered, turning to browse through her shelves for one of her many concoctions. "If you were any other race, you'd probably be dead, by now."

"I… see." The customer sounded a little taken aback. Arcadia initially believed that it was the mere fact alone that had startled him, but thinking on it a little, she realized her tone may have been a little hostile. She'd most definitely stressed the word 'Argonian.' It wasn't intentional… it sort of came naturally after the stigma she'd been raised on and her past encounter. She was Imperial by birth, but perhaps she'd been in Skyrim a little too long…

"Do _Imperials_ come to you often for cures, then?" Her customer shot back. Arcadia turned to face him. His expression was hard to read, but there was little tension in the air, it seemed.

"It's how I stay in business." The woman managed a weak chuckle. Her customer relaxed, in response.

She placed the potion upon the counter, labelled "Cure Disease." Hesitantly, the Argonian stepped forward and placed a small handful of coins upon the counter in exchange.

"… Do I have to sterilize them?" He asked, his hand hovering over the gold, cautiously.

Arcadia's lips twitched in a suppressed smile. Figures that an Argonian wasn't familiar with the nature of diseases – their natural immunity made them less aware.

"Ataxia isn't contagious among people, as far as I know. Only Slaughterfish and Skeevers can give you the disease. And if I _do_ catch anything, I'm set." She added, gesturing to her wares. The customer gave a nod, before reaching over, uncorking the potion, and downing the entire thing in one go.

He gave a small cough after swallowing the brew.

"Is there mudcrab in this, or am I mistaken…?" He stared at the empty bottle incredulously, pinching the neck with finger and thumb.

"Mudcrab chitin and vampire dust, to be precise." Arcadia gathered the coins into her own purse, trying hard not to laugh at the man's wide-eyed expression.

"Alchemy always confuses me." The Argonian sighed, placing the bottle into a satchel that hung from his back. "I still don't understand how a poisonous giant's toe can make you more enduring against attacks, given the right combination…"

The woman tilted her head. "You dabble, then?"

"Out of curiosity." The Argonian seemed a touch more lively, now. Colour was returning from beneath his scales, which were earning back a slight sheen. He was a little younger than she'd first thought – the Ataxia had given the illusion of age. "I'm usually interested in healing potions, however… whatever makes me last longer in battle."

Arcadia gave a chuckle. "Even with the armor, you didn't seem like the warrior type to me." She walked over to her store chest, unlocking it to store her newly-earned coin. "You seem like you're at the age to settle down."

"I am thirty-nine." Came a slightly miffed voice. There was a pause, as the woman looked up from her safe. The insulted expression upon the lizard's face melted into a thoughtful one.

"… I suppose that is an age for settling." He admitted. "Still, I don't believe I'll have time to do so for a while, yet."

The Argonian sounded almost sad when he said that. Not in a manner of deprivation, but of exhaustion, Arcadia observed. This man had a busy life, it seemed.

"No rest for the wicked?" It slipped out. Damned Skyrimian prejudice.

To her surprise, and relief, the lizard gave a loud laugh. Arcadia had a loose tongue when she was relaxing into a conversation. It occasionally got her into trouble, and she was thankful that this wasn't one of those times.

"Perhaps in my younger years." His voice lapsed into a thick Black Marsh accent for effect during the statement, but he continued speaking in his more natural Cyrodiilic tone. "I gave up my lockpicking days when I came of age. Nowadays, it's merely travel."

Arcadia decided to take his word for it. Some Argonians had been known to dabble in crimes of sort, and it was hard to say if this customer were a fugitive somewhere far off in Solitude, for all she knew. Then again, any wandering vagrant that travelled through this city had that likelihood.

Benefit of the doubt was beneficial for business. That was how it had to work, sometimes.

"No place to settle?"

The Argonian shrugged. "I… just got into Skyrim. A week ago, to be precise."

"From _Cyrodiil?" _Arcadia blinked. The border restriction had been in effect, then. "I'm surprised you weren't caught."

"I was, actually." He was starting to look uncomfortable, as if this wasn't a topic he felt was worth being shared. The alchemist, however, pressed him hard.

"How are you standing here, then? A bribe? Did you overcome them? Did you have help?" There went her loose tongue, again. Farengar would have told her off, had she'd been in his presence. The questions weren't fast and rushed, but her tone was prying – for good reason, though. Arcadia hadn't been that keen on the border laws ever since they were instilled. They forbade her from returning home, so this news excited her rather than alienated her.

Death penalty be damned.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." The Argonian said, quietly, but firmly. His eyes flared, and she bit her lip. The topic was off limits. The woman stood up straight, having realized she'd been leaning forward in her excitement.

"… I'm sorry." Arcadia glanced out the window. Blackness had encompassed the outside, and the guards of Whiterun were now lighting the lamps.

"Closing time, is it?" Her customer asked, his tone businesslike. "Or… later than that. I'm sorry for taking up your time."

"Not a problem." The woman turned to face him. She'd enjoyed the conversation – she hardly wandered out of her store to speak to others, due to her high-maintenance profession. She only really kept in close contact with Farengar Secret-Fire, despite the castle duties that bound him (to her chagrin). But… back to business. "If you need any potions, you know where to find me."

The Argonian gave a nod, and a curt. "Thank you for your help. Good night."

He left as suddenly as he'd come. Arcadia gave a sigh. She knew that she'd potentially lost a customer, after that little interrogation. And an adventurer, at that. That occasional running mouth came with lack of prolonged socialization, the woman supposed. Short and idle chat was a daily thing, but maintaining it sometimes ended messily, in her case…

So she was surprised when the same Argonian entered the next morning, and wandered sullenly over to the alchemy lab, without so much as a greeting or eye-contact.

Arcadia merely observed the series of small explosions that resulted over the lab for a good while, before finally starting to suggest working combinations.

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><p>The alchemist could have sworn that her shop had rattled under the force of that mere Shout. She'd never heard one before in person, but she understood the nature of the Voice just fine. She couldn't make out the word. She supposed it was some ancient Nordic or dragon-ish language that she hadn't quite cared to learn about.<p>

The few customers that followed the event made it a constant topic of conversation. "Did you _hear _that?" "Did you _feel _that?" Yes, she certainly had. More importantly, a few of her more fragile ingredients had, and now she had to restock on her wide variety of eggs.

So she was already fairly irritated when one of her more frequent customers, the Argonian, stumbled in. Arcadia was in no mood for conversation, but she couldn't help but notice the scalding burns on the Argonian's hands and arms. He wore a tunic, pants and a lightweight hood – and there were bruised markings on his shoulders, suggesting he'd only just been relieved of heavy armour.

"… Was there really a dragon?" She found herself asking.

The Argonian gave a weary sigh.

"Not so unbelievable, anymore, it looks like." He wandered up to the counter. "I don't suppose you have anything that would help resist dragon breath, would you?"

Arcadia pursed her lips. "Would flame resistance help?"

"Very much." The man unloaded a few coins onto the counter. "I don't have enough on me for a healing potion, today, so could you just give me a Blisterwort, please?"

The woman nodded in approval. Over the past few weeks, she'd been teaching the Argonian bits and pieces in alchemy – if not for helping him hone is skills, then to merely prevent him from wasting precious alchemical ingredients.

"I'll throw it in for free." She said, placing a bottle labelled "Resist Fire" onto the counter, grabbing the requested fungus out of a nearby box. "You're a frequent customer. Besides, fire resistance isn't easy to make."

The warrior reached out to pick up the potion, before pausing and taking a good look at the store shelves.

"…What happened here?" He asked in a half-grin, amused as he pocketed the potion. "Did someone have an explosion?"

Arcadia's sour mood returned. "More like someone Shouted, and shook up the town." She shot back, collecting the coins off the counter. She would have to cart all the way to the next town over – the Khajiit caravans wouldn't be in the local area for another month. She wasn't excited at the prospect of travel, seeing as the roads were full of dangers – including bandits, wildlife, bad weather…

… and now, dragons, apparently.

"…Indirectly, that may be my fault." The Argonian muttered, quietly. The alchemist glanced up at him, confused.

"You can Shout?"

"That Shout wasn't mine." He waved his hand at her, in defence. "Someone's just called me. All the way from High Hrothgar, apparently."

Arcadia raised her eyebrows. The Greybeards lived in absolute seclusion from the outside world, in their monastery. From what she'd heard, their mastery of the Voice, and their skill at Shouting was unmatched. She knew little about how it all worked (aside from the force being enough to kill a High King), but she partially understood the severity of the situation.

"Why would they summon you of all people, though?" She asked. Predictably, the Argonian grew silent, and Arcadia gave a short sigh. It was an unhappy balance between a cagey individual and the occasional intruding question. Whoops.

"… Do you know the term _'Dovahkiin'?"_ He suddenly asked, startling her.

"Can't say I have." She admitted. The man nodded, as if to move on to the next topic – but something in his demeanor changed, and in a moment, he was back on track.

"It's a dragon word." He explained. "It means Dragonborn… Whether that means anything to you, I'm not sure – but I don't feel like talking about it in detail, right now. According to the Jarl, I happen to be one."

He didn't answer any other questions after that, no matter how hard Arcadia pushed him. Yet in retrospect, the alchemist began to realize the heaviness of his role. The ability to naturally Shout, to absorb the souls of dragons and learn their knowledge directly, rather than years of honing his skills… the ability itself was that of mere legends, and even she – an alchemist who only knew parts of history through reputation – could understand that.

The Argonian – finally introducing himself as 'Trace,' – knew the weight of the role upon him, and she could see it was unwelcome. He remained a frequent customer in the weeks to come, becoming more skilled at alchemy under her tutelage, and was offered greater discounts on her potions, mainly on the days he stumbled in with fresh burns. Arcadia's life went on as usual – with Farengar, alchemy, trading and teaching. She saw Trace frequently enough to deem him an acquaintance and student – but hoped that tired sadness wouldn't overcome him, as it had appeared to the first week after the dragon attack.

She could only be a small crutch to him in his endeavors.

After all, the man led a very busy life.

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><p><em>So, playing Skyrim, I've decided to play around with a few characters during the game's story. These are basically a collection of one-shots that rotate around whatever part of the game I happen to be at. Arcadia's Cauldron is a frequent place for me to buy shit, so… Arcadia's featured here.<em>

_The nature of the one-shots is that the story is more or less told from the perspective of other NPCs. The Dragonborn of this universe, Trace, is just observed._

_These stories probably won't be in chronological order, and will probably be of a fairly boring nature, like this one. Dungeons and battles will be referred to, and some will be shorter and perhaps sillier than others (and thus easier to read! Yaaay!). I enjoy looking at the world of Skyrim using the NPCs, actually – but the game's still fairly new to me, so if I've goofed up on politics/characterisation, let me know. _

_Alright. Thanks for reading. _


	2. M'aiq

_Disclaimer: Skyrim belongs to Bethesda_

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><p>It was quite a sight. Probably most unlike that of Cyrodiil. Cyrodiil was impressive sometimes, yes – there were many creatures to look at. Many creatures that burned things. Many creatures that chased you around and tried to kill you.<p>

M'aiq knew many of these creatures. But never before had he seen a dragon.

He had been wandering the shimmering geyser pools near Windhelm – he had fallen in line behind a Khajiit caravan. M'aiq was not always comfortable travelling alone, especially with the Nords about. The Nords with fur-lined armour, to boot. Skyrim was beautiful, yes… but its native inhabitants did not always like M'aiq.

And he did not always like them.

Still, M'aiq wandered the lands. He knew that interesting things would happen. For some reason, the Khajiit was a victim – or perhaps master – of circumstance. Always in the wrong place at the right time, or the wrong place in the right time…

… it did not make a difference to M'aiq.

The Khajiit had been glancing at a dragonfly, hovering above a pool – and thinking to himself that there had been less and less butterflies in Skyrim as of late – when his ears pricked beneath his hood in response to a distant, echoing roar.

M'aiq had not been expecting to see a dragon at all. He knew they were hidden throughout the lands of Skyrim. They had always been there. They had only simply been very, very quiet, and invisible, and he had expected them to remain that way.

The caravan before him panicked, and scattered, as a looming shadow swooped overhead, darting across the hot springs as a stark, black wisp.

The vagrant had realized, soon after the initial panic, that the group of Khajiit were not its target.

Instead, the dragon seemed very interested in a very startled-looking Argonian, whom he had just noticed dashing across the salt flats. The newcomer was hooded, wearing poorly-made heavy armour - that happened to be encumbering his movement. He had made no move for his swords, which were still sheathed to his sides.

M'aiq stood still, observing the lizard run by. The caravan had been abandoned, its goods spilling out of the horse-drawn cart – the equines having been cut free from their burden. The Khajiit crouched down next to the cart, grabbing a sweetroll that had tumbled from a slipping sack in the process.

Lucky for M'aiq.

Another large roar sounded from the flats, and he looked on, taking a bite from his prize. The Argonian had dove into one of the pools as a torrent of flame burst from the gaping maw of the dragon. M'aiq cringed, unsure what was worse – the scalding temperature of the hot springs, or the licking flames of a dragon's breath.

The lizard-man was very alive, though. Alive enough to burst from the water after the dragon had finished its assault – and alive enough to belt out a few strange words in an echoing, thunderous voice.

_Fu do? Fush ro? Shush yo? _M'aiq didn't quite catch the exact words, but the force of the shout was enough to make even the dragon flinch back in the air. The Argonian stumbled out of the pool in wake of the distraction and dashed in the opposite direction, uncorking two potion bottles that he'd grabbed out of his satchel and downing them both in one gulp.

The dragon did not let him get very far.

It dropped out of the air to crash on all fours before the warrior, who stumbled back - finally drawing both swords, his scaly face scrunched up into a snarl.

M'aiq looked on, almost having finished his sweet roll. The Khajiit wondered if the lizard-man had fought often. He did not look comfortable in battle – but he seemed to be a little tired of running. Still, M'aiq cared little about what the Argonian's ability was – he was merely interested in what the strange man could _do._

That was all that mattered, after all. If strength or wit couldn't prove much alone, then action did.

The battle was slow, and drawn out – The Argonian spent most of his time running away – and at times, hiding beneath the surface of the water in any pool deep enough to contain him. He stayed there for as long as he needed for any respite he could gain. The dragon could always see where he was, though. He would always hover above the pool, waiting for its prey to surface.

Eventually, the scalding heat of the spring would be too much, and he would lunge out, choosing to either run away again, or charge straight at the dragon. M'aiq did not think it was a very noble tactic. M'aiq had seen better warriors, far better – far braver.

Still, M'aiq had never seen anyone fight a dragon.

And later, M'aiq would confess he had never seen anyone _kill _a dragon.

It wasn't the most impressive of endings – the Argonian had very messily managed to stab the creature between its blazing eyes when it was nearly paralysed with exhaustion, finally ending its wrath upon him. Then, he'd stumbled back and collapsed hard to the ground on one knee, wheezing in both exhaustion and pain. His swords remained embedded firmly upon the dragon's head, despite him having released them.

M'aiq popped the last few crumbs of the sweetroll into his mouth, and then rose to wander over to the Argonian, who now sat still upon the ground, wordlessly staring at the massive beast.

M'aiq paused when he saw the beast begin to flake away, its form glowing and disintegrating like floating embers on a campfire. The Khajiit, for a little while, simply watched the pretty, glowing flakes, and observed a sudden bout of winds and currents of energy from the dragon's corpse, sweeping about the odd warrior, who continued to sit there – his eyes shut in response.

And a sudden chorus of loud, harsh chanting suddenly assailed the Khajiit's ears. It was brief, but unexpected, and left as quickly as it came. M'aiq flicked his ears back.

"Did you hear that?"

The Argonian, tired and weary, turned to face the newcomer in confusion.

"…Hear what?"

"Never mind. M'aiq shouldn't think on it too much." The Khajiit approached the dragon corpse – which could no longer be classified a corpse, really. It was a skeleton, devoid of any flesh, from what M'aiq could see. Scales, muscles and all had entirely disintegrated.

"M'aiq would have never believed it if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes." He said, slowly.

"You're not the first person to say that." The Argonian said, quietly. Despite his weakness, he'd stumbled back to his feet.

"M'aiq does not think you've been doing this long." The Khajiit remarked. "M'aiq has never seen one fight dragons. He did not think they would be around so soon."

The warrior gave him a quizzical look. M'aiq had seen that look often.

"… I've only fought three dragons." The lizard seemed to speak before realizing he was doing so. "The first time, I had the aid of Whiterun's military. The second time, I was fortunate enough to be near a camp of Imperials, with skilled archers…"

He wandered over to the enormous bones of his kill, grasping one of the two swords still embedded in its skull.

"… This is the first one I've actually fought on my own."

"M'aiq believes there are many, many dragons in Skyrim." The vagrant stated, plainly. "He believes you will fight many more. It does not matter if you are alone, or with others."

The Argonian eyed him, suspiciously. "… How do you know?"

The Khajiit gave a shrug in response. "M'aiq knows much, and tells some. M'aiq knows many things others do not."

The lizard gave a chuckle. He seemed tired – perhaps a little bitter. "Pardon me for being skeptical, but you can't just _know _things."

He seemed to pause after that statement, as if suddenly uncertain of it.

"There is no point in elaborating something M'aiq cannot quite explain." The Khajiit said. "You simply go along with some things – knowledge, events, and fate. It is all very confusing, but M'aiq thinks we are trapped within certain paths, whether we like it or not."

The older warrior fell silent. The vagrant crossed his arms.

"M'aiq wonders who this man is. Not many Argonians in Skyrim." He watched as the man managed to yank one of his swords out of the thick dragon's skull. He seemed more engrossed in his task of freeing the other sword than acknowledging the vagrant.

"My name's Trace." The Argonian said, finally, as the second sword pulled free.

"Trace knows things others do not, it seems. And he cannot quite explain how. Maybe he _will_ know, someday, but for now, M'aiq suggests he goes along with it." The Khajiit looked over at the fallen horse cart that had served as his hiding place throughout the battle. Its owners had not returned to claim it.

"M'aiq suggests a sweetroll." He offered to the Argonian, as he wandered over to the spilled supplies. "He thinks they solve more problems than most people believe."

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><p>For a brief while, M'aiq watched Trace continue to stare at the dragon bones. There wasn't much else to talk about after that little discussion. He'd at least accepted the Khajiit's offer in terms of confectionaries, and he now held the half-eaten sweetroll in a scaly hand.<p>

The Argonian would not talk at all, now. That was alright. M'aiq was finished talking, too. Still – he wondered if he would run into the seemingly reluctant warrior again sometime. He supposed not – Trace would probably have much to do. Then again, Skyrim sometimes felt a lot smaller than many people would assume.

M'aiq walked on past the Argonian, giving him a soft slap on the shoulder as he did so. "M'aiq wishes you well."

Trace did not respond until the Khajiit had wandered a good ten feet away. Then, he turned and called over.

"Should I need to know what to _do, _at least?"

The vagrant turned on the spot, eyes glimmering in amusement.

"Why are you asking M'aiq, of all people?"

The Argonian gave a laugh – less bitter than his last. "You seem to know some things – that are either too crazy to be true, or too true to be crazy."

M'aiq tilted his head at the remark. Sometimes, he wondered if what he knew made any sense to anyone other than himself. He knew that at times, he did nothing more than confuse others – but he spoke what he believed was true.

Still…

"M'aiq thinks you should be careful who you listen to." He said. "He thinks it's better to think for himself. Otherwise, he might not think at all."

Trace blinked at the statement. The Khajiit knew the Argonian wasn't idiotic – he'd choose a path of his own, regardless of what others told him. Still, M'aiq knew carving out one's own path to carry out his fate wasn't the easiest thing to do. Looking from only one perspective could be very intimidating, indeed.

"Everyone says everything." The Argonian retorted, after a pause. "I'm not sure what to choose to believe."

The vagrant shrugged. "Some say Alduin is Akatosh. Some say M'aiq is a liar."

The Khajiit gave a toothy grin.

"Don't you believe either of those things."

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><p><em>The first time I ran into M'aiq was when I was being attacked by two dragons at once. I reset from an earlier save after getting my ass handed to me, many a time, but I couldn't find him again in the general area. <em>

_Still, the idea of him watching the Dovahkiin being chased by a dragon back and forth across the landscape as a form of entertainment kinda stuck in my brain. So this was churned out. I didn't have much time to do an entirely 'quirky' M'aiq – he had to deal with a lizard man suffering a motivational crisis._

_Also, I seem to have a habit of writing these at 4am… _


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